The sharp edge of the paper cut Chloie's cheek. The sting registered somewhere far away, meaningless.

Her eyes, webbed with broken blood vessels, slowly focused on the woman she had once called her sister.

Bailey pulled a silk handkerchief from her pocket and delicately wiped her gloved fingers. Then she dropped the silk square onto Adrien's body like it was nothing.

A feral growl rose in Chloie's chest. She lunged forward, teeth bared, trying to bite the hand that had tormented her. The mercenary behind her grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back.

Pain exploded across her scalp, forcing a choked cry from her lips. "You'll burn in hell for this," she spat, her voice a broken whisper.

Bailey laughed, a high, piercing sound that scraped against the concrete walls. The laughter stopped as fast as it had started. She leaned in close, her breath warm against Chloie's ear.

"Hell?" she murmured. "Darling, you're the one who built it for him."

"He deserved it," Chloie snarled, clinging to the lie that had shaped her entire life. "He killed my father. He destroyed my family."

Bailey looked at her with that same infuriating pity. "Adrien Riddle never touched the Monroe family," she said, her voice soft and clear.

The world tilted. A roaring sound filled Chloie's ears. "No," she whispered, her body starting to tremble uncontrollably. "That's impossible. I saw the evidence. The SEC files, the bank transfers..."

"All fakes," Bailey said, straightening up. "Every last one of them, created by me and Clay."

Clay. The name hit her stomach like a fist. Clay Franks. Her fiancé. The man who had held her, comforted her, and fueled her thirst for revenge for seven years.

Bailey watched the hope drain from Chloie's face, a collector admiring her work. "And the slow-acting neurotoxin you've been putting in his tea every day? A special blend, mixed by Clay himself."

The memory slammed into her. Every morning, her hands steady as she served Adrien the "calming" herbal tea. Her stomach heaved violently, but nothing came up. Only bitter acid burned her throat.

Bailey walked a few steps away, her heels splashing in a puddle. She kicked a rusted oil drum. "Did you really think Clay loved you?" she asked, her tone conversational. "He wanted your thirty percent controlling stake in Apex Holdings. That's all you ever were to him."

Chloie shook her head, mumbling, "No, no, no," a desperate chant to block out the final, crushing truth.

Bailey pulled a phone from her coat. She tapped the screen. A familiar voice filled the warehouse, cold and clear. Clay.

"...a foolish tool," his voice said, dripping with contempt. "She's perfect. Emotional, stupid, easy to control. The perfect weapon to use against a beast like Riddle."

The sound of his voice, the voice she had loved and trusted, was the final blow. The light in Chloie's eyes went out. She slumped in the chair, a marionette with its strings cut.

"You were just a pawn, Chloie," Bailey said, pocketing the phone. Her work was complete.

Chloie's head slowly lifted. She looked at Adrien, lying still and cold in a pool of his own blood. A pain so immense it felt physical ripped through her chest. For seven years, she had carefully, lovingly, driven a knife into the heart of the only person who had ever tried to protect her.

The agony twisted into a white-hot rage. Her head snapped up. Her eyes burned with a primal, animalistic fury.

With a scream of pure hate, she threw her entire body forward. The heavy iron chair tipped and crashed to the ground. It slammed into Bailey's shin.

Bailey shrieked in pain and stumbled backward, falling to the floor.

Chloie, still bound to the chair, writhed on the ground like a dying fish, trying to crawl, trying to sink her teeth into Bailey's throat.

The mercenary stepped forward and drove his steel-toed boot into her stomach.

The impact threw her across the concrete. She coughed up blood, her body curling into a tight ball.

Through a haze of pain, she saw the warehouse door open again. A man in a camel-hair coat stood silhouetted against the storm. Clay Franks had arrived.

Clay Franks stepped over a puddle, his expensive shoes making no sound on the wet concrete. He walked to Bailey and offered her a hand, his face a mask of calm indifference.

Bailey's expression shifted instantly to one of a wounded victim. She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet and into his arms.

Chloie watched them from the floor, the pain in her abdomen a dull throb compared to the fire in her soul. She stared at the two people she had loved most in the world, locked in an embrace over her broken body.

Clay kissed Bailey's forehead, then looked down at Chloie like she was something he'd scraped off his shoe.

"Why?" Chloie rasped, blood bubbling at her lips. "I gave you everything."

A cold smile touched Clay's lips. He let go of Bailey and walked slowly toward Chloie. He reached into his coat and pulled out a black Glock 19. The sound of him chambering a round was sharp and final.

He crouched down and pressed the cold barrel of the gun under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You were always so pathetic," he said, his voice soft. "Begging for affection like a stray dog. It made me sick."

Chloie didn't flinch. She met his gaze, her own eyes burning. "The fire," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "In the Hamptons. Was it you? The one who saved me?"

Clay stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. It was a cruel, ugly sound that filled the cavernous space.

He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. "The idiot who ran into a burning building and got half his skin burned off?" he said, drawing out every word. "That was him." He jerked the gun toward Adrien's body.

The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Chloie's world shattered into a million poisoned shards.

"I just happened to be walking by," Clay continued, savoring his victory. "I found his family signet ring on the lawn. That's all it took. Ten years of your pathetic, undying devotion for a cheap lie."

A sound escaped Chloie's lips, a low, guttural moan like a dying animal. She turned her head, her eyes finding Adrien's still form. She had to get to him.

She began to crawl, dragging the heavy chair with her, the ropes tearing her wrists to shreds.

Clay watched her with a frown of disgust. He stood up, took a step back, and aimed the Glock at the center of her chest.

Chloie didn't even look at the gun. Her arm was outstretched, her fingers scraping against the gritty concrete, trying to bridge the impossible distance to Adrien.

"It's over," Clay said, his voice flat. He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening, a roar that swallowed the sound of the storm outside.

The bullet slammed into her chest. The force threw her backward. She landed hard, a warm, wet sensation spreading across her shirt. Her life was draining out of her, fast.

Her vision blurred. The triumphant laughter of Clay and Bailey seemed to come from very far away, muffled, like she was underwater.

With the last of her strength, she turned her head and fixed her gaze on Adrien's pale, beautiful face.

Hot tears of regret slid from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the blood and grime on the floor.

If I get another chance, she thought, a silent, burning vow, I will tear you both apart.

She looked at Adrien. And I will protect you. I swear it.

With that final, desperate promise, her breath hitched. The world dissolved into blackness.

Then, a violent feeling of falling. The darkness was replaced by the thumping bass of electronic music and the clinking of champagne glasses.

Chloie's eyes flew open. She was sitting bolt upright, gasping for air, in the middle of a soft, sprawling bed.